I was never taught to write a love poem

From a young age I learned how to grieve
I learned how to keep myself on my feet
I learned how to wallow on perilous ground
I learned to stand up when I fell down

I was taught to smile to keep hatred away
I was taught to keep my emotions at bay
I was taught to do everything on my own
I learned to love being alone

I learned to build barriers all around
But I was never taught how to break them down
I learned that if a crush seemed to stay
I needed to to push my feelings away

I never learned to love or to give anything to you
Now I don't even know how to break through

This was for my love but I'll never show him
These strands of sorrow meant to be a love poem

Outside is Gray
Like my name
Lovely and broken
Misty and forgotten

Outside is Gray
Not spelled the same
Still hated in happiness
But loved in sorrow

they  do not know the darkness
how the light can fade into latin
& all things unreasonable

today i write of glass and ashes inspired before
then swept by other’s moments witnessed  the cleaning

Let your poetry flow
as the ceaseless river
each poem a heart-beat
of your enchantment and wonder

He said we were like a supernova,
the sudden explosion, white-hot
and loud in the body of the sky,
the kind of light that burns
through the eyelids,
leaves an afterimage etched
in the retina of the universe.
Seen for three days straight,
sunlight and starlight fused
into one unbearable glare.

He told me love is the reset button,
the way a star collapses to begin again.
He said, I could survive alone,
but chose me instead, as if survival
were not the easiest answer,
as if being with me were a decision
made in a moment of stillness.

I doubted him—
his quiet strength, the way
he could carry the weight of silence
as if it weighed nothing,
the way he didn’t sway
when the winds rose,
when I unraveled, my edges
fraying into the thin air.

I need him to hold the center,
to keep the world from tilting,
but he doesn’t need like I do.
He lives in wants stripped clean—
no hunger, only fullness,
no chaos, just the brushstroke
of a steady hand.

And me—
I am the opposite of steady.
I am a gust,
a whip of color staining the canvas,
a metamorphosis that never lands,
forever on the verge of becoming
but never quite there,
a creature of motion, a hunger
that doesn’t know where to rest.

Still, he stays,
his calm like a gravity
that pulls me into orbit.

The supernova burns out.
The light goes dark.
I want to ask him,
What happens after?
But he looks at me—
the way he always does—
as if the question isn’t necessary,
as if we were already
the answer.